


Fire

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, No Sex, Not much of a plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 20:28:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4193802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock struggled to breathe in the dense smoke. He reached out to where he’d last seen the doctor, calling to him,  but John didn’t respond. Freeing himself from under the rubble, he crawled toward John, crouching over his prone body. Briskly rubbing a hand over the doctor’s back to elicit a response, Sherlock held his breath for several tense seconds before John stirred, groaned and lifted his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies in advance. This is my attempt to add a bit of action, i.e. case work to my stories. I don't think I've succeeded very well, but I will keep trying.

The last thing DI Lestrade needed to end his only day off in two weeks was a phone call from Sherlock Holmes. 

“I was having a pleasant day until just now,” he shouted, probably annoyed more than was warranted. It was an old, hard to break habit with the genius detective, but then he remembered Sherlock never called because he preferred to text. His heart skipped. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Jonathan Wilson.”

“What?”

“The case. He’s the killer. The one who put poison in the cereal. The c.e.r.e.a.l. killer as John will so quaintly title his next blog.”

Lestrade was on his feet and out his door in seconds. “Sherlock? Where are you?”

“Running...down. John...”

Greg fumbled with the keys until the car door finally unlocked. “I’m losing you, you’re breaking up.”

“Got to...out...fire...John...fire!”

“Sherlock, what have you gotten yourself into this time? Sherlock?” 

The connection went dead. 

Lestrade heard the sirens, intercepted and followed them to an abandoned building a short distance away. He was barely out of his car when a visibly agitated young man approached.

“Are you police?”  
“Yes. Detective Inspector Lestrade. And you are?”

“Jamie Renard. I tried to tell one of the firemen what I saw, but they just pushed me away.”

Lestrade looked from the man to the building and back again. “And what did you see?”

“A man went inside about ten minutes ago. Just a few minutes later, two other men followed him. Then I saw the fire. The first man came out, but the other two are still inside.”

“Are you certain they didn’t exit another door?“

“There are only two doors and I could see both as I waited for my cab. I’m the one who called 999.”

“Can you give me a description of the two men who are still inside?” 

“One was tall, thin, lots of dark hair. The other was smaller, fair-haired. Oh, and the taller man wore a long dark coat.”

It wasn’t the answer he wanted, but Sherlock’s phone call and the description fit together like hand in glove. Lestrade took his arm. “Come with me.”

Holding his badge out in front of him, Lestrade stopped the first fireman he encountered. “Who’s in charge?” 

“I am. You need to step back out of the way.” 

Lestrade stood only to the man’s chest, but he didn’t let that stop him. “This man witnessed two men going into the building. He believes they are still inside.”

“Who are you?”

“Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I believe the two men inside are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.”

Any further conversation was halted by an explosion forceful enough to shake the ground beneath their feet. Smoke billowed through the roof as it collapsed, filling the air with flaming debris. 

“Shite,” Lestrade said.

~0~

 

Sherlock struggled to breathe in the dense smoke. He reached out to where he’d last seen the doctor, calling to him, but John didn’t respond. Freeing himself from under the rubble, he crawled toward John, crouching over his prone body. Briskly rubbing a hand over the doctor’s back to elicit a response, Sherlock held his breath for several tense seconds before John stirred, groaned and lifted his head. 

“Sherlock?”

“John, are you all right?”

“Yes...wait, my foot is stuck.”

Sherlock ran his hand down John’s leg to his ankle, which was trapped beneath a large piece of the something he couldn’t identify in the smoke-filled air. Together they lifted and pushed off the debris, dropping it once John was free.

“We need to get out of here now, John. Can you walk?”

“I think so.”

Helping John to his feet was simple. Supporting him as they picked their way through the obstacle course of the collapsed roof slowed their escape.

John looked up and shook his head. “Hurry, Sherlock, I don’t think we have much time.”

John coughed suddenly, pressing a hand to his chest. “I’ve got soot in my eyes and throat. Lead the way, I’m right behind you. I’ll hold onto your coat.”

“No, John. Not behind, beside me.”

“This is not the time, don’t argue,” John shouted between coughs. “Go!”

John’s sturdy fingers on Sherlock’s lower back urged him forward. The detective’s extraordinary sense of direction brought them back to the door through which they’d entered just moments before a second explosion rocked what was left of the building and drove them to the floor.

On his feet at once, Sherlock pulled John up and against his side with an arm wrapped around his ribs. The fire was nearly on them when Sherlock pulled on the door. It swung wide, then fell from its hinges. One step forward was all they got before the roof above the door disintegrated, showering them with flaming debris. 

Without warning, the detective was momentarily airborne. He landed hard, in the dirt just beyond the door. Dragged away from the building, Sherlock realized only seconds later that John was not with him. Even as he struggled to drag air into his lungs he broke free of his rescuers, turning in a full circle, his keen eyes searching for his doctor.

“John!” 

With every bit of his strength, Sherlock fought the men trying to hold him back, but in his weakened state, he was no match for them. Once they were a safe distance from the collapsing building, Sherlock’s legs gave way.

An oxygen mask pressed over his nose and mouth allowed him to pull in desperately needed clean air. As his head cleared, he was suddenly aware that it was Lestrade who supported him and held the mask to his face.

“Easy, Sherlock. They’ll get John. Just breathe.”

“John,” Sherlock croaked from behind the mask.

When a third explosion rocked the ground, forcing John’s would-be rescuers to retreat, Sherlock panicked, but Lestrade held him firm.

“John,” he called out, his voice breaking.

Sherlock stared at the door, his breathing labored and his mind racing through scenarios to rescue John, if only he had the strength to overpower Lestrade. He prayed, hoped, begged, almost tried to make a deal with a god in which he didn’t believe, when movement at what was left of the door frame set his heart racing. Forcing himself onto his knees, he twisted free of Lestrade’s restraint.

“John?” 

The John Watson shaped shadow materialized from the destruction, stumbling out into the open. 

“John! Over here.”

Sherlock knew the moment John heard his terrified call. His head came up and their gazes locked. Coughing heavily, clutching his chest, John shrugged off assisting hands to walk in a hurried, unsteady gait toward Sherlock. Just short of his goal, the doctor went down, crawling to where Sherlock waited with arms outstretched.

As he sank to the ground, Sherlock pulled John into his arms, securing his own mask over John’s nose and mouth.  
“Sherlock?”

“Don’t talk, just breathe.”

“Sherlock?”

“You’re going to be fine, John.”

Behind the mask, John smiled. Sherlock crushed him to his chest, pressing his cheek to the crown of John’s head. It was the most comfort he could offer under the circumstances. With a shaky hand, John reached up to touch his finger to Sherlock’s lower lip.

Lestrade appeared beside them, dropping one hand on the detective’s shoulder and the other on John’s head.

“You two are going to give me a heart attack one day.”

Sherlock adopted his put upon expression, but lost control of it the moment he felt John’s firm grip on his arm. He looked down to catch John’s warning look behind the mask and promptly ignored it.

“If you hadn’t taken the day off, you would have been here to catch Jonathan Wilson. You weren’t here, so John and I had to do your job.”

“Sherlock.”

“John, no talking.”

John pulled off the mask. Sherlock replaced it. John pulled it off again. Sherlock frowned and replaced it, holding it in place.

“Sherlock!” John’s shout set off a bout of coughing that left him gasping.

“I’m sorry, John. Try to relax. Just breathe. I’m sorry, Greg.”

If he was startled by Sherlock’s apology, Greg didn’t show it.

Just a few minutes later, they were approached by the emergency medical personnel, informing them that they would be transported to hospital. Sherlock agreed for John’s well being, emphatically stating that he himself was fine, and John relented only when Lestrade offered to deliver them. 

Once John was on his feet, Sherlock already had a plan to circumvent a stop at A&E. Curling an arm around him they slowly walked toward the ambulance where John insisted he no longer needed oxygen and pulled off the mask to return the equipment.

Lestrade caught up with them there.

“Are you okay to wait in the car for a few minutes? I want to get the name and address of the man responsible for saving you two...in case you’d like to send him a thank you note. Maybe a text would be better. No, both would be good, I think.

“We can wait, Greg,” John said in his weary way, but with a half smile.

“I won’t be but a moment.”

Sherlock watched him as he strode away, stopped and turned back. “My car is just behind the ambulance.”

Sherlock fluttered his long fingers in his familiar dismissive gesture, unconcerned about the disapproving look he knew was on John’s face. 

“Come, John, you need to rest your lungs.”

“Sherlock,” John snapped, his soldier firmly in place. “My lungs are just fine now, thank you very much.”

“That remains to be seen. I have a suspicion that Lestrade plans a stop at hospital on the way to Baker Street, but I have a plan.”

“Of course you do, how could I be so silly to think otherwise. Good. No hospital, I just want to sleep in my own bed tonight.” 

“Our bed, John.” Sherlock stopped mid-stride. “Lestrade would be easier to put off, but I think my brother will be more persuasive.”

“What? Your brother?”

Sherlock inclined his head to their left, where an official black car waited for them, its rear door held open by an imposing man in a dark suit. Knowing it was futile to deny Mycroft’s commandment, they climbed into the car, made themselves comfortable, and sighed. Wherever they were headed, it was not Baker Street.

~0~

Lestrade had the information he needed when he hurried back to his car to argue John and Sherlock to the nearest A&E. All he saw was the retreating rear lights of an official government car.

“Mycroft Holmes. Bollocks.”

~0~

Ten minutes later, when the car slowed to turn into a long, winding entrance to a large, unremarkable building not unlike the Diogenes Club, Sherlock already knew Mycroft’s interference had everything to do with their current case. A safe house? He groaned. 

John stirred, lifting his head. He’d drifted off just minutes into their kidnapping and until now hadn’t so much as twitched from his position against Sherlock’s shoulder. 

John coughed, cleared his throat. “Where are we?” 

“Who knows when Mycroft is involved, but I suspect he wants to debrief us now that we’ve closed our case.”

“Not a torture chamber, then?”

Sherlock chuckled. “Doubtful, but my brother is always full of surprises, as you well know.”

John laughed, coughed, winced, once again pressing his hand to his chest. “Right.”

Sherlock did his best to shake the remnants of the burning building from his clothes, but when John made no move to do the same, he ran his fingers through the doctor’s hair and brushed at the shoulders of his coat. 

John gave him a wistful half smile as he turned away to walk to the door that now stood open. Sherlock linked their fingers for the short walk.

It was no surprise when Mycroft met them at the door. 

“Sherlock. John. Come along. I’ll show you to your suite.”

“Suite? Sherlock? What? Why?” John looked to Sherlock, confusion blanketing his soot smeared face.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock’s tone demanded an explanation from his brother. 

“Soon enough, brother mine.”

Neither John nor Sherlock was prepared for the team of medical personnel awaiting them in the suite that could well have been in the most expensive hotel in London. Sherlock observed their surroundings, but said not one word.

Over the next hour, they were thoroughly examined, including chest X-ray while Mycroft stood at the door with his back to them. He was still there, to Sherlock’s dismay, and Mycroft’s obvious, smug delight, when they emerged from their showers dressed in night clothes from their own wardrobes.

Sherlock looked around for Mycroft’s assistant. Not seeing her, he decided it must have been by Mrs. Hudson’s hand. 

“Why are you still here?”

Mycroft lifted his pointy nose a bit higher and sniffed the sniff of his supposed minor government position.

“I am here, still, brother dear, to be assured that you are afforded the best care possible.”

“There has to be more to it than that, Mycroft. John and I could have gone back to Baker Street. We hardly need medical care.”

“That would be incorrect, Mr. Holmes. While you are well enough to leave, Dr. Watson is not,” the unknown doctor announced as he doddered into the room.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the doctor’s advanced age as he turned away from his brother to glare at the doctor who dared to interrupt.

“And you are?”

“Dr. Anderson.”

Sherlock twitched his nose as though there were an odor about the suite. “How unfortunate to have such an insufferable name.”

John rested his hand on the detective’s lower back. “Sherlock,” he warned, swallowing a chuckle of his own.

“Dr. Watson, I would like you to stay here overnight.”

Before John could protest, a nurse held up a nasal cannula and guided him toward the bed. Any argument Sherlock might have given died in his throat at the thought of John being injured.

“Is this really necessary?” John asked as another coughing spell made him grimace, once again pressing a hand against his chest.

“Your X-ray says it is,” the doctor replied. “It isn’t serious, by any means, but I would like to clear up that cough, and repeat the X-ray in the morning. If all goes as I expect, you will be discharged soon after. You may remove the cannula only long enough to use the toilet.” 

The lack of response immediately drew Sherlock’s attention. John was angry, hurting, his eyelids fluttering, blue eyes staring, his distress obvious only to the detective.

When he turned to ask for tea for John, the doctor with the unfortunate name had departed. 

Mycroft interrupted the silence to press his agenda.

“I arranged for you and John to be cared for at this clinic to keep you safe from a danger of which you are obviously not aware.”

“There is no danger, Mycroft, I’ve solved the case.”

“And you have stumbled into an ongoing investigation of a most delicate nature. Again.”

“Explain.”

Before Mycroft could begin, John suffered another painful coughing spell. Until it passed, Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, with his arm around John’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock, I cannot explain.”

“More secrecy, brother dear? Are you in collusion with the CIA again?”

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse, Sherlock. It’s beneath you.”

“You tell us we’ve stumbled onto something, yet you won’t explain so that we can amend our investigation?”

“There will be no further investigation, Sherlock. And I will need your promise that you will cease immediately.”

“Sherlock.”

“Shush, John, give your lungs a rest.”

“John, I need your promise and utmost discretion that you will not blog about this case.”

John cleared his throat with difficulty. “If it’s that important to you, Mycroft, and the security of the nation, I won’t blog about it. You have my word,” he said, his voice suddenly hoarse.

“Thank you. And you, Sherlock?”

“I want a good reason to cease our investigation, Mycroft,” Sherlock insisted with a good amount of petulance.

Mycroft smiled. 

Sherlock raised a brow.

John coughed, leaning heavily against Sherlock.

“Sherlock, please give your word. I’d like to get some sleep.”

“John.”

“Sherlock, give.”

Mycroft raised both brows and sighed. 

“Sherlock, surely you understand that this involves a matter of national security. I’m certain you don’t want another Magnussen calamity. I won’t be able to pull in any favors this time. I have only so much power and it is sorely limited at the moment. I believe that even John understands this.”

“Hey, just because I’m not a genius, God, Sherlock, please agree. I can’t go through that again.”

Sherlock started at the sorrow behind John’s words. Kissing John’s forehead, he held him close.

“Very well, Mycroft, but understand that I am not doing this for your benefit or my own. I’m doing this for John.”

“Understood, Sherlock. And thank you.”

“What?” 

“Goodnight, Sherlock. Dr. Watson.”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock growled. It had no effect on his brother’s swift departure.

With a slight nod, Mycroft closed the door behind him. 

John stared at Sherlock. “What was that all about?”

“I don’t know and I don’t like it when I don’t know.”  
“That’s a sentence that doesn’t tumble from your mouth every day. I’m not sure I like it that you don’t like it.”

Sherlock chuckled, gazing at John, his affection for this small man curling in his stomach. The dark circles beneath the doctor’s blue eyes were an indication of his exhaustion. John needed to rest.

“So let’s not think about it for now, Sherlock. Mycroft can take care of it this time.”

John dropped his head to Sherlock’s shoulder, drew in a breath, coughed, held his hand to his chest.

“You, my little morsel, need to lie down and rest.”

“Morsel?”

“Yes, you look delicious in your well-worn flannel bottoms and that obscene T-shirt.”

John shook his head, pushing Sherlock away, but there was a small grin he failed to hide. 

“I think you inhaled more smoke than I did and it’s clouded your judgement.”

“Never. My mind is as clear as ever.”

“All right.”

Resting his forehead against John’s, Sherlock grew serious.

“I almost lost you tonight, John. My heart...I...can’t bear the thought of losing you. When you emerged from the smoke and debris, the relief I felt...I-”

“It’s over, Sherlock. Let’s not think about what ifs, about what might have happened. We’ve done enough of that in the time we’ve been together. And just so we’re clear, and I’ve said this many times, but it bears repeating. The thought of losing you tears me up inside.”

Sherlock tipped his head to steal a kiss before his doctor could continue. John’s words died in his throat as he leaned into the kiss. He still tasted of smoke and fire, but lingering there beneath it all was John’s familiar scent that was always a comfort to him.

Neither of them heard the door open, unaware that they were not alone any longer until the nurse cleared her throat.

“Gentlemen?”

John jumped at her voice, but Sherlock wouldn’t break the kiss, smiling against John’s mouth to maintain a small amount of control.

“I’m here to take your blood pressures and temperatures before you settle in for the night.”

John pulled back, a pretty flush along his cheekbones, but the look in his eyes was anything close to embarrassment. 

“No kissing until I’m finished. I don’t want either of you to influence the readings, understood?”

“Yes,” they answered together, John amused and Sherlock petulant. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand until the pout slipped from his face.

“Very well, gentlemen, I’m finished. Tomorrow is my off day, so I’ll say goodbye to you now. Take care of each other and stay out of burning buildings. And Dr. Watson, keep that cannula where it belongs if you want to go home tomorrow.”

“Yes, thank you...I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

“Louise.”

“Thank you, Louise, Sherlock and I appreciate your good care.”

The nurse smiled briefly, gathered her equipment and hurried to the door. 

“I’ll place a Do Not Disturb on your door. Lock yourselves in so you’ll have your privacy. I will also leave a note for the night shift so no one will wander in unexpectedly.”

Long after she left them, Sherlock stared at the closed door from where he stood beside the window.

“What is it, Sherlock? I can feel your restiveness all the way over here.”

“Odd,” Sherlock said as he made his way toward John, once again sitting beside him on the edge of the bed.

“What’s odd?”

“John, have you ever had the feeling that something is going on, but you don’t know what it is?”

John smiled. “All the time. It’s comes with the package when you love a genius detective who has the British Government for a brother.”

“Hmm.”

“Sherlock, will you be able to let it go this one time? You did promise.”

“John, you know-”

“Sherlock, please. Just this one time? Please? For me?”

Sherlock held John’s face in his hands, gently stroking his thumbs over the dark circles beneath the doctor’s sleepy blue eyes. Rolling over onto his side, he drew John down beside him, cradling him against his chest.

“Just this once, John, for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's been my eventual goal to expand my lovey stories into something more substantial. For more than a month I have been struggling with not being able to write, or not having any ideas at all. I have three partial stories with nowhere to go. I feel as though I have lost the essence of our boys and I am not doing them justice. When I read this story, I don't "hear" them. If there is anyone out there who would care to comment and tell me what is missing, I would be most appreciative. This lack of voice has saddened me unlike any writer's block in the past. I love our boys and I need to know how I can put the "heart" back into my writing.


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